I got Jenny a tit job for Christmas. I can’t say it was completely altruistic. She had always been bitching about how small her tits were and I always said they were perfectly fine. In truth, I had always enjoyed the tits of women a little more well-endowed. But I loved her, so what was I to say. So I got her a tit job… for Christmas. Her mother had thought about giving her one for her college graduation. She wanted to be a TV reporter back then, and Jenny and her mother both thought larger breasts would be a benefit. I imagine while she’s at home her mother will ooh and ahh at how she now fills out her sweater. Her father will suspect that my intentions in giving such a gift were not truly altruistic. He’s never liked me. So she and her new breasts are gone, and I am left here working out the last few days of the year. I never figured out why the “man” always plans the biggest projects for this time of the year. The best I can figure is that the “big man” back in January or February said, “this will get done this year,” and everyone that controls me twiddled their thumbs for a good 10 or 11 moths and then said, “oh shit!’ And thus I am stuck here working double time for single pay to get a project done so these people, who have all already left for the holidays, don’t catch any shit. I guess that’s the way it goes. At least, once the scars have healed...
I am just about to make the phone call. And even though I’ve dialed the number every day this week, the thought of it ties my stomach in knots. By writing this I know, in a way, I am putting off the moment when I must pick up the handset, tap in the area code, then the number, and wait until a nurse answers at the other end: Hello, Burns Unit. My mother is in a pitiful state: She has lost seventy per cent of her skin – face, arms and hands, chest, back, tummy, thighs and feet; her breathing is aided by a ventilator through a tracheotomy; tubes come in and out of evey orifice for food, blood, piss, you name it. She is very ill. And all this from a drug allergy. When my father rang to say that the doctors had given her a less than fifty per cent chance of survival, I dropped everything at work, rented a car and drove the 170-mile journey to her bedside. The medical staff are amazing. I can’t even begin to express my admiration for, and gratitude to, everyone who is working so tirelessly to save my mother’s life. The nurses are constantly monitoring, testing, adjusting and tending. Registrars, consultants and surgeons are honest yet encouraging in their counsel, answering any question with patience and warm sensitivity. She really couldn’t be in a better place or in better hands. There is no end to this story; no one knows how it will end – all we can do is hope. Now I’m going to make that phone...
Recent Comments